With a sharp blow she smashed the neck of the wine bottle against the rim of the sink. Sacrificing one of her T-shirts, she stretched it over the jug and filtered the wine through it, the tiny splinters of glass catching in the burgundy stain. She drained the first glass in one. Took the second back to the fireside with her, picked up the notebook.
Is Viljam’s full name Johannes Viljam?
Ylva and Jo.
She recalled that the name Ylva was mentioned in the interview with the eighth patient.
Is Viljam the person you call Jo in the CD?
Then Viljam must have been your patient. Why has he never said anything about that?
Ylva Richter.
The name seemed familiar to her, but she couldn’t think why. Was it something she’d read? Or someone Mailin knew?
Why did you write her name in the book you brought with you? Why did you have to write it in charcoal and hide it on the bookcase? Why was the name of the author of this book the last thing you said as you lay there in that factory? Why did you have to leave in such a rush you didn’t have time to clear out the fireplace? Why did you go to meet Berger, Mailin? You must have known it was dangerous. You’re not like me, you’re always careful about where you go.
She sat for a while, staring at the gnome fighting to stay alive in the embers.
Was Viljam your patient before you became a couple?
Searches for help. Is met with passion. But you were going to marry him.
Ask Viljam about that.
Was he the eighth patient? Was that what you were going to reveal on Taboo that evening? Jo and Jacket?
If Jacket was Berger and Viljam was Jo… Viljam looks for tenderness and protection. Exploited by a bastard. Damn that Berger. He’s with the Devil now.
Abruptly she stood up, so angry she couldn’t sit still any more.
Who is Ylva Richter? Is she someone Viljam’s been seeing?
She took out her mobile. For once she wished she could pick up a signal there. Not to call the police, that could wait. This was something she had to ask Viljam about. Get some answers about what was going on here. Mailin had helped Viljam. Because she couldn’t have just used him. Mailin was goodness itself. Liss drained the rest of the wine glass. The thought of that goodness awoke something in her too, something similar. She made up her mind: she would speak to Viljam at once, this evening. Find out if this was true about him and Mailin. Walk up Kringlesåsen and pick up a signal there and call him. Stand up there in the dark and tell him what she’d found out. That she knew how much pain he had suffered.
She shrugged on a jacket and pulled down the snowshoes from the shelf above the door. She had killed a human being. But she felt Mailin’s goodness in her. Stronger than all the bad things Liss had done.
6
ROAR PUT THE bowl with the remainder of yesterday’s tomato soup into the microwave. He found two hard-boiled eggs in the fridge. He peeled one and ate it. For a second he thought of ringing Viken immediately but dropped the idea for the time being. If the phone call he was waiting for gave him the answer he expected, then he would have an ace up his sleeve, and one that he had come by on his own. The embarrassment of the briefing the previous week was still fresh in his mind. This time he would make sure he played his cards right.
The microwave pinged; he took out the bowl, cut up the other egg and dropped the pieces into it. For some reason, the sight of the white boats bobbing in the grainy orange soup made him think of something that had been bothering him for several weeks now. He had promised his mother he would call in and drive her out to the cemetery, help her get rid of the burnt-out remains of the Christmas Eve memorial candles and generally tidy up around the grave. She was more than fit enough to do it by herself, but it was obviously important to her that they do the job together.
His phone rang. He swallowed down a half-chewed slice of egg before answering.
– This is Arne Vogt-Nielsen here. I’ve checked that thing you asked me to.
– Great, said Roar encouragingly as he picked up his pen and notebook and pushed the piping-hot soup to one side.
– You asked about a holiday in Greece. Autumn of 1996. That’s correct, I did take the family to Crete that year. Usually we went to Cyprus, a couple of times Turkey. The kids enjoyed it best there, in Alanya, and a hell of a good hotel.
Roar wasn’t interested in Turkish seaside resorts. – Whereabouts in Crete?
– Place called Makrigialos. Not too bad, but a hell of a drive in from the airport, you know how it is, fifty degrees inside the bus, all those winding roads, with the kids all whining and the mums all grumpy from being up since the crack of dawn…
He made a smacking noise with his lips at the other end.
– And this was in September 1996?
– Check, departure on the seventh, back on the fourteenth according to the receipt from my following year’s tax return.
Roar resisted the temptation to ask why this trip had shown up on the man’s income tax form.
– Can you remember if anything special happened on that holiday? He was in a hurry now and added: – Something about a cat?
– Christ, yeah. You don’t forget something like that. We head off a few thousand kilometres for a nice family week away from home and end up with the world’s most difficult neighbours.
In vain Roar tried to interrupt the tirade that followed on the subject of people from Bergen who thought they owned the place wherever they happened to be.
– The bloke being a lawyer didn’t make matters any better. I had to take him down three or four pegs. He came bursting in on us demanding to know if it was Jo who had killed that cat and hung it on their door. I kicked him out. The next day I asked Jo about it, and he said he thought it was that idiot’s daughter who had done it and was trying to pin the blame on him.
Again he made a sound with his lips as though he were sucking on a boiled sweet.
– But now tell me what it is you’re really after. Because obviously you’re not ringing about a cat that got killed in Crete. You’re with the Oslo police, isn’t that what you said? Or did I get that wrong? Did you say you were with the RSPCA?
Suddenly Roar wondered whether he had misunderstood. – You said Jo? We are talking about your son Viljam, aren’t we?
– That’s right. We’ve always called him Jo. He’s named Johannes Viljam after me. My name’s Arne Johannes.
– But now he calls himself Viljam.
A few strangled cries came from the other end, which Roar did not immediately identify as the sound of Vogt-Nielsen laughing.
– That lad’s always been a one-off. When he became a teenager he decided he was going to call me Arne. He got this idea that I wasn’t his real father. Some kids play the most fantastic games. Of course, he didn’t really mean it. But when he left home after finishing secondary school, he insisted on being addressed as Viljam. Claimed he wouldn’t even answer people who still called him Jo.
– So he left home early?
– That’s right. Autumn 2003. After he left school, he messed about round here for quite a while before he settled down. I mean, he couldn’t spend the rest of his life lying in bed, so I took him in hand, got him moving, made sure he got his driving licence and helped him get himself a car. Then I sent him off to look for places to study. He’s always been a bright lad, and his school-leaving certificate was bloody brilliant, give him his due.
– He travelled about, you say… Was he in Bergen?
– He might have been. He wanted to study somewhere far away from home. It was best for everybody, it seemed to us. Finally he ended up in Oslo studying law. But now you tell me what this is all about, otherwise this conversation is over.